Dawn
by leave your sanity at the door
Summary: From darkness into light: the last morning of the last day. Principally written as an aside to Nik216's story High Up Above or Down Below, so it is strongly suggested that you read that first; however, it can be read alone. Rated M for the downright obvious.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:**

**This story was inspired by Nik216's story "Up High Above or Down Below", without which it would never have been written. It is meant to serve as the penultimate chapter (i.e, between chapters 10 and 11). Thus, extra special credit and thanks goes to Nik for her continuous encouragement, her crazy horse mind, her Matrix bug, and her Mark Wahlberg accent. Oh, and for editing the story too.**

**Movie-verse only. Any resemblance to any other TDKR fic is purely unintentional.**

**I do not own the characters of The Dark Knight Rises (because if I did, there would be another film in the works now), but Bane and Talia own my heart. **

**And this is rated M for a very good reason.**

* * *

Although the night's frantic trysts had thoroughly worn them out, sleep hadn't kept them long—it couldn't afford to today. After barely three hours, both had awoken at just past 4am, he first and she only minutes later. This was it - the last day – and with Bruce Wayne seemingly back from the dead, they needed every spare moment if they were to fit in any of their scheduled activities. The now obsolete alarm clock had originally been set for 4:30 anyway, allowing for an hour's tour of the night-veiled city, two hours at a 'rest' stop, and then back at City Hall by 8am.

Yet, that their final union had been planned so clinically, almost like a military operation, had no effect on their anticipation of it. Creeping through the silent building and its slumbering occupants and out into the bracing black night air to the waiting tumbler, Talia felt excited to the point of giddiness, like a convent school student escaping into the big wide world for the first time. The shiver that ran through her upon hitting the wall of chill air was not born of discomfort, but exhilaration, and no sense of bleak finality hung over their drive through the doomed streets. Instead, there was only promise. And, whilst Bruce Wayne certainly posed a formidable opposition for which they would need to keep vigilant, it was nevertheless unlikely to be enough in the end.

They would be coming full circle by seeing in the dawn at the penthouse workplace of the man who had set the set the wheels in motion for them; the odious little construction mogul John Daggett, who had met a suitable end with a mangled face and a snapped neck. Miranda Tate's vile opulence had been given a blinding send off, Wayne's penthouse a thrilling violation, and the Mayor's office a timely 'fuck you very much, Sir'; it seemed only fitting that Daggett got in on the love.

* * *

It could be said that their union was fated. At the tender age of seven he had been committed to the Pit, in lieu of his father, who had been killed resisting arrest, along with the rest of his family. Bane senior was an international underworld kingpin – a supremely educated businessman with a small army at his disposal - yet his reign had been broken after negotiations with a warlord in Jodhpur had turned sour. For all the knowledge he possessed and the power he commanded, decades of impenetrable success had led him to become complacent, to think himself invincible, and it had proved his undoing.

Two years later, the same warlord sent his own daughter to that hell hole. The pale-skinned young woman struck up an alliance with the nine year old wily kid, initially unaware of each other's parentage; correcting his Marwari and trading him skills for scraps of food, out of which grew a relationship of mutual trust and sibling-like affection. There was a bond between them—she, having been condemned by her own father, and he, having seen his own murdered by him. They formed bridges that their sires had destroyed; bridges further solidified by Talia's birth.

From the time of her mother's murder to that fateful day he had facilitated her escape, Bane had been Talia's everything; brother, father, teacher, friend, and protector. The title of lover had come nine years later, she a burgeoning girl of eighteen, and he, two and a half years shy of 30. Like monks, the League of Shadows core members practiced sexual abstinence to a level unobtainable by mere mortals. Outings to tavernas and dalliances with local women or prostitutes were strictly forbidden, and the League's only female - Ra's daughter – was the holiest of holies. It was as incumbent upon her to remain chaste and pure as it was upon the men to deny themselves.

Yet, the relationship forged in the Pit had been the one to break both rules, fundamentally too deep and too strong to be denied. Neither she nor he had anticipated the gradual shift from platonic friendship to growing physical attraction, nor even welcomed it, but it was clearly mutual. From the onset of her adolescence until the age of 17, she had spent long nights in heated turmoil, arguing with herself over the ramifications of fancying the man who was practically her brother.

A fixation like this certainly couldn't be healthy, could it? An all consuming obsession born from an attraction to everything about him - his mind, his legacy, his authority, his mission – didn't need to turn sexual. But, time after time she would stand there, rooted to the spot as she watched him train, unable to move or hardly breathe for how transfixed by him she was. The longer she watched, the further away she slipped, intoxicated by the monumental amount of effortless power he exuded from every pore; and as her thoughts gave way to images of how that power could be put to better use, she would catch her hands sneakily wandering to places they shouldn't go in the day time.

She felt as if her feelings for him were spiraling out of control, rendering her bereft of any disposition or willpower to regulate them. She didn't want to feel like this – and she surmised he didn't either – but the fact was, neither could help it—it was bigger than them. And ultimately, because of this, her desire and in fact need for him won out. Indeed, _need._ No-one in the world had shared what they had shared or experienced what they had experienced, and no-one could know or understand them like they knew and understood each other. Theirs was an unparallelled bond, and an ascension to sexual love seemed a natural stage in that bond's evolution. The thing between them transcended lust. It transcended infatuation. It ran deeper than obsession. It was meant to happen, and it needed to happen, because no-one else could fulfill the other in that way.

This cannot have gone completely unnoticed by her father, who, after Talia's 14th birthday, began sending her friend on ever more dangerous missions abroad. During one of these times, Ra's had sat his daughter down for a solemn chat, expressing concern at the amount of time she and the masked man spent together.

"Do you know who his father was?" he had asked, sternly. Upon Talia replying that yes, she did, and that Bane was not his father, Ra's had fixed her with a filial but almost patronizing expression – a concerned man to his naïve daughter - and said "we become our fathers, Talia. And Bane's... was not a good man".

Still, she knew her father well enough to be sure of one thing; Ra's and the League of Shadows needed Bane. He may have initially taken the young man in on Talia's pleas, but he wouldn't have kept him on that alone. Bane's criminal roots and nightmarish upbringing had made for a smart, tireless fighter, powerful in both brawn and brain; 6'3 and 235lbs of natural leader, to whom the concept of defeat was anathema. Indispensable to the League, but only so long as he didn't start getting his own ideas. Her father never explicitly showed it, but Talia could infer easily enough; Ra's feared Bane. Whether for his father's reputation or his unspoken threat to Talia's chastity, the Demonhead was _scared_.

She had made the first move, creeping into his room the night he had returned, bruised and with one arm in a sling, from what according to her father was one of the League's most dangerous missions yet. That first night in each others arms they had done nothing but sleep, the desire he had cultivated for her suppressed by sheer exhaustion, and hers kept at bay in respect for him. One night became two, and two became three, and over the course of the next month sleeping gave way to talking long into the early hours. Talking about their shared past, about his family, the present, his assignments.. and eventually, tentatively – even though it was something both had been yearning for for years, and diligently holding back - she had broached the subject of sex. He had proved reluctant at first, hesitant on account of her father and the very real consequences their union might entail.

"You don't know what you're saying, Talia," he had whispered, stroking up and down between her shoulder blades as she lay nuzzling into his sweet warmth, fully aware of each others incessant arousal.

"I don't care," she had persisted, brushing her crotch against his and fighting the surge of lust that flared in her gut, "I want you. I _need_ you. I need to feel you."

Suddenly breathless, he had responded with "Talia.. you don't know how much I want the same, but.. who knows what he'll do if he finds out?"

"He won't find out," she had said, fingers lacing with his and left leg draping lazily over his hip so that his sizable erection now pressed readily against her crotch, "he won't. He won't. He won't..."

It was pure torture for the both of them, and after a week of talking back and fourth, of small hands venturing to tempting places only to be forcefully removed with a stern "no", his will had broken. And how he had let her know; hiding behind the door when she crept into his room that night and then seizing her from behind, swinging her round and slamming her up against the wall, his solid left hand covering her mouth to muffle her startled scream. The deluge of terror she had felt upon his attack turned quickly to arousal the moment their eyes met, his gaze screaming passion and raw need. Although he would never intentionally hurt her, she loved to be reminded of his brute strength and how easily he could dominate her if he wished it. To be owned and protected by someone as imposing, as eminent as him, struck right at the core of what it was to be female—he was the alpha male, the type of man every woman would go weak at the knees for.

She had strained against him, arching her back and pressing her lower body against his, registering the same insistent hard-on that she had become so closely acquainted with recently. Then he had freed her mouth, and was pressing himself into her, too, his arms snaking around her and lifting her up, to carry her to the bed.

As they undressed, caressing each other and grappling to stifle gasps and trembling breaths, he had told her what he knew of intercourse—knowledge gleaned from conversation in the Pit, and clandestine whisperings amongst the League's soldiers. Without access to sex, the men discussed it frequently, boasting of their previous prowess and describing female anatomy in lurid detail. There were two main sweet spots; an external, small hooded nub above the labia called the clitoris, and a nameless, more elusive internal one which apparently made the woman ejaculate clear fluid – not urine - from her urethra. Apparently, proof of finding it was an initial feeling for the woman of needing to pee, but the mild discomfort would be transitory.

Blessedly, Talia's athletic training, and, unbeknownst to her father, masturbation (years of fingering herself, albeit clumsily, and never coming across an ejaculation-inducing internal sweet spot) with one, two, then three fingers , had somewhat prepared her for penetrative sex.

"Every time I did it," she cooed as they lay down, fully nude, on his bed, "I thought about you; when we sparred, when we embraced, how it felt to be at your command, how it felt to be protected by you.. I thought about you fighting – so strong and powerful – and then I imagined you undressing, but I couldn't get an accurate picture because all I'd seen of naked men and erections was in the anatomy books I'd studied.. and I must say, they completely do not do you justice..."

His response was an adorable chuckle, and a sultry-voiced admission of having frequently pleasured himself to thoughts of her, too.

"For how long?" she had asked, eyes sparkling.

"Years," he smiled.

"Me too," she said, "years and years."

He had prepared her first with his hands, one massaging the clitoral hood he'd had no problem locating thanks to her directions, and two of his fingers inside her (two fingers that comprised the width of three of hers) whilst her fragile-looking hand, moistened with saliva as he had instructed her to do, encircled his hot, rock hard cock, sweeping up and down. Gently and slowly his fingers slid in and out, around, and then curling intricately, exploring a woman – his woman – for the first time. She had guided him with her eyes and muffled moans, shuddering when, half way to clitoral orgasm; he had arbitrarily located her inner sweet spot, evidenced by the sudden intense feeling of needing to urinate. It was then he knew she was ready.

With her fully primed both mentally and physically, he had then knelt between her legs, holding her under the butt with her squatting above him, her legs on either side of him. He had teased the head of his sex between her labia, reveling in her moist warmth as she reveled in feeling such alien thickness delve into virgin places, before extremely carefully lowering her down over him until he was sheathed entirely inside her. Desire or not, it had hurt, and she had immediately buried her face into the crook of his neck, stiff and biting back the tears. She had never experienced such pain before, and it had terrified her.

"It's OK," he had whispered, his hands caressing from her butt to her shoulder blades to the back of her head, and stroking her hair tenderly, as if violence was something he had never known; "It always hurts at first; that's natural. But the pain won't last, I promise. Just stick with it, and you won't believe how quickly you'll adjust. Lose yourself, Talia. Let me take you."

Following that, whether genuinely adjusting to him or utterly hypnotized by his reassuring words, the pain had become bearable. She had entrusted herself to him completely, letting him mold and manipulate her into whatever position he desired – nevertheless, slowly and with utmost care - and somewhere along the line pain had become indistinguishable from pleasure, and pleasure from delirium, and he had brought her to clitoral orgasm shortly before swiftly withdrawing and ejaculating onto her stomach. She had delighted in rubbing his warm semen into her skin, curiosity compelling her to lick her fingers, and then frowning at the strange, salty taste; not her idea of delicious, but certainly not disgusting either—something she could very easily grow to enjoy, if only for the mental kick she got out of her protector's rapt expression as he watched her consume his seed.

She had watched him spar the next day, albeit under her father's scrutinizing gaze, feeling the heat ignite at her core whenever their eyes met. The very fact that it felt so scandalous was enough to arouse her, in spite of the lingering pain he had left her in, and she had returned to him that night for more of the same. In between brushes of his fingertips and nuzzlings of metal against flesh, he had confessed to her that for the first time he was grateful for the tight, protective sparring attire, because otherwise seeing her in the room would have left everyone in no doubt how he felt about her. In that respect, being well endowed was a curse.

"I hope I'll be sparring with you soon, then," she had grinned, kissing her way down his body and then swirling her tongue around the tip of his engorged cock for the very first time, achingly curious to taste him, as her left hand danced to the surprisingly soft skin of his shaven balls and tentatively began a fondling exploration.

"And when we do, press yourself up against me, pin me down, make sure I feel you," she whispered, flicking her tongue in spark-like horizontal strokes as she moved up and down his thick shaft. And in times that came, he would, and she would be left wet and absolutely desperate, consumed with rabid frustration at the dawdling hours until nightfall when she could sneak to his room and feel him pound into her with abandon.

Their second time together was equally painful for her at first, but the balm of his voice – so velvety and smooth – helped to relax her. Even though it hurt, it was necessary pain, he told her, and enduring it would only make the reward sweeter. So she listened to him, obeying blindly, concentrating just as he told her on the sensation of him filling her, awakening nerve endings and parts of her that had never before received such attention. His voice and words alone made it feel good, and before she knew it she was in that same place again, unable to decipher whether the pain was gone or was in itself pleasurable.

Every time that followed, the pain decreased, to be replaced by sweeter and sweeter pleasure. As they explored each others body and grew more adventurous, he learned how to hit her sweet spots and have her turn live-wire on him, clamping her teeth down on her own arm or the ball of material he had provided – because leaving bite marks on his skin would not go unnoticed by her father - to muffle her cries. That they couldn't kiss, or he go down on her, was a minor inconvenience. They got around it- her lips and tongue caressing the metal muzzle as if it were his lips, and him working diligently with his pubic bone, fingers and cock, to make her peak both clitorally and vaginally during penetration. Soon enough she wouldn't have it any other way, requiring him to be completely inside her before she could even contemplate orgasm, except for occasions when he would grind his mask against her entire crotch, and the sheer inhuman feel of it - the weirdness and notion of it being so wrong - set her alight. She would buck and gyrate against the metal, slicking it up with her juices and cleansing it with them, righting the wrongs that it represented and making it an instrument of pleasure rather than one that merely anesthetized his pain. The psychological aspect of it alone was enough to please him, and he would moan with her as she approached the final precipice - "that's right, that's right girl.. I can feel you.. come on," - the timbre of his voice vibrating hot against her moistened skin, intensifying the sensation.. and sending her hurtling over the edge.

They wouldn't come to discover that one of them was infertile until mere weeks before his excommunication. The first clue occurred during a humid summer week her father was away on business in Switzerland, when a night of particularly wild passion swept them away, taking the idea of contraception with it. They had waited with trepidation, having agreed – on the basis of logic alone – that she would take the blame, fabricating a story about using her father's absence to sneak out into the local town and "experience a sense of real life". Realistically, there would have been no other alternative—such disregard for the Demonhead's authority may have lead to a solid grounding for her, and perhaps even a forced abortion, but for her friend the penalties could be unthinkably worse. Fortunately, her period came, bang on schedule, two weeks later. Despite this, they considered their luck a fluke and continued to play it safe, until, unbeknownst to them, several weeks prior to that dreadful night, her father's absence had resulted in the same scenario. They had agreed to stick to the same story. But again her period had come, regular as clockwork.

Neither had been sure whether to feel glad or upset, deciding eventually that it could have been simply another fluke, for which the only appropriate response was to feel relieved. A future together – married, with children – had never even been speculated on, the two of them only ever taking one day at a time and the only plans ever formed between them being when to meet and how to evade rousing anyone's suspicions. And they continued choosing not to speculate on it, placating themselves with it not being relevant. It was only after she had exiled herself to find him - a week of fervent, undiluted recklessness following years of agonizing separation from one another - that the truth became clear. He blamed the anesthetic; she, herself. He told her it wasn't her fault, proposing numerous reasons that could have resulted in infertility for either or both of them, but she remained wracked with tenacious, gnawing guilt- guilt that gradually seeped away from her conscious mind but would linger forever in her subconscious, manifesting in feverish nightmares in which she was alone with only words from a formless voice for company; "you killed him".

Now, though, on the last morning of Gotham's fated existence, the guilt was gone. It no longer mattered that there would be no human heir to the League's legacy, or no living breathing reminder of the bond shared between two people who, for the blink of an eye, ruled the world. Their legacy – Ra's al Ghul's, Talia's, Bane's, and the League's – would be cemented in chaos and destruction and the birth of a new world order, their names entering the history books to be hailed as martyrs, saviors and luminaries by some, admonished as crazed fanatics or outright terrorists by others. Through this, they would achieve immortality; and that was more than virtually anyone else could lay claim to.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:**

**This story was inspired by Nik216's story "Up High Above or Down Below", without which it would never have been written. It is meant to serve as the penultimate chapter (i.e, between chapters 10 and 11). Thus, extra special credit and thanks goes to Nik for her continuous encouragement, her crazy horse mind, her Matrix bug, and her Mark Wahlberg accent. Oh, and for editing the story too.**

**Movie-verse only. Any resemblance to any other TDKR fic is purely unintentional.**

**I do not own the characters of The Dark Knight Rises (because if I did, there would be another film in the works now), but Bane and Talia own my heart. **

**And this is rated M for a very good reason. **

* * *

3000 square feet of bronze, gold and marble-bedecked space, on the 30th floor of a gray stone and glass neo-gothic creation, comprised the personal offices of Mr. John Daggett. Although now ransacked and disheveled from months of chaos, mercifully the building's electricity was still running - evidenced by the steady lights and the hypnotic slow whir of the lobby's overhead fans - allowing the couple to take the elevator to the top. Daggett's private elevator, in fact – having had an associate hack the key shortly prior to Daggett's untimely death - direct to office room 1.

Although unlikely to encounter any trouble, they had nevertheless gone prepared, each brandishing matching Glock 17 pistols, concealed in their pockets, and Heckler & Koch G36C rifles. But no one sprang out on them upon the elevator door opening. No covert assailants stalked them from behind corners, leaping out when least expected. The entire place was a, eerie, soundless abyss.

They took a few minutes to explore. The mahogany double doors to the room, and matching ones to the complex, hung awkwardly from busted hinges, defaced in slime green graffiti with numerous obscenities. The ebony and glass paneled door to the second room had completely detached itself and lay, forlorn and crippled, in the marble hallway. The office's two main rooms now existed in equal state of disarray—curtain-less, smashed windows; TVs with cracked screens lying horizontal on the floor; antique wooden furniture hacked to pieces – the baby grand included ; huanghali wood bureau upturned, its contents dispersed throughout the room along with the library's; and standing shelves and superfluous accoutrements strewn hither and thither. The contemporary glass table was now a mass of of glinting shards upon the marble floor, its flat screen television a dented wreck amidst the debris; and behind it, the polished sycamore desk that used to house Daggett's PA, miraculously still in one piece but with its laptop absent.

As if someone had preternaturally anticipated the couple's arrival, the lights had been left on. Furthermore, the only furniture that had escaped relatively unscathed were the cappuccino crushed velvet sofas with their chrome arm rests in the main office, the Italian leather ottomans, and ridiculously expansive, tufted chaise lounge sectional sofa in the second room.

Their first union had taken place under cover of darkness, with only shimmering moonlight to guide them. Their last would be the same. So, they set about extinguishing the lights, finally coming to a stop by the vaulted strong box in the second room, and setting their rifles neatly on the floor. Lights from surrounding buildings, occupied or not, shone in on breezeless air through windows now devoid of glass or curtains, providing just enough visibility.

The morning of the day that was to usher in the true new era; this was it and it almost didn't seem real. 5:15am—30 minutes before the darkest hour turned to twilight. Half an hour to astronomical dawn, an hour before nautical dawn, 90 minutes before the third and final stage - civil dawn – and 135 minutes until that final, perfect sunrise. Her back against the cool wall, and him facing her, utter silence settled upon them as they breathed each other in, blue eyes tethered to hazel ones and fingertips tracing contours of metal, flesh, waxed cotton and wool. Their fingers and eyes worked at a leisurely pace as they undressed each others upper body- undressing, oblivious to the wintry chill - lingering on places that would never be touched in the same sacred way again.. at least, not in this world.

Never once removing her eyes from his, she tentatively navigated the bindings of his bulky clothing with practiced ease, just as he did with her more refined attire. Her heart rattled in her chest at the muffled sound of garment after garment falling to the floor.

Both finally stripped to the waist, her protector's large hands mapped her naked skin in delicate strokes, her heart juddering at his touch and a warm wetness seeping into her clothed nether regions. All these years, and he never failed to have her delirious with lust and all-encompassing need. As he touched her, her right hand ventured to his muscular chest, and then gracefully dropping to his waist, and lower, to the enticing hardness even his thick cargo pants couldn't conceal. Delicious. The years had done nothing to dim his passion for her, either. She recalled the first time she had felt that hardness, clothed, and the first time she had seen his naked erection, marveling at the length, girth and heat as she wrapped her dainty hand around it. Back then, she had wondered – worried, almost - how he would fit inside her without tearing her apart.

He read the desperation in her eyes, promptly sweeping her into his arms and striding to the expansive chaise lounge on the opposite side of the room, where he set her down gently. She sat up, scooting to the edge, and he joined her, immediately getting to work on his combat boots whilst she removed her own footwear.

"Let _me_," he smiled wryly after she undid the buttons and zip of her pants, placing his right index finger on her sternum and urging her to lay back.

She obeyed, and he moved to kneel on the floor, before her legs, and helped her wriggle out of the oppressive garment. His right hand crept, spider-like, up over her now saturated panties, settling at the hem and then creeping further, to her hip. His left hand followed suit, and the wet material came off in one fell swoop. Sitting naked before him for the last time, just like the first time, she felt refreshed and free—nothing and no-one had the power or authority to trap them any more. There were no boundaries, no rules to conform to, because at that moment there was no power greater than them.

"I think we're going to have to leave those here," he said, flinging them into the ether, "but don't worry- I brought a spare pair, just in case."

"Really?" she sat up, the thought of her alpha male protector rifling through her bag and retrieving a pair or cotton panties with a triumphant "ta da!" unintentionally hilarious.

"Well," he replied, a certain smug tinge in his deep voice, "knowing how _wet_ you get, even prior to undressing, I wouldn't want you to be in any discomfort."

She laughed, reaching down to stroke the side of his neck with the back of her hand, and then said; "Well thank you. But unless you have a spare pair of pants, you'd better get those ones off before you make a hole in them."

He burst out laughing, hanging his head momentarily as he surrendered to the laughter, before looking back up at her with warm, lucid eyes. Their passion undimmed by the brief comedic moment, he rose to his feet and began leisurely divesting himself of his remaining clothes, teasing her to the point where it was all she could do to stop herself from jumping on him.

"Now now," he wagged a finger at her, reading her lascivious gaze, followed by a derisive little tilt of his head, "we've got two hours. No need to hurry."

"I. don't. care," she seethed with mock petulance, edging her legs further apart and leaning slightly back, tilting her crotch so that her now puffy sex was fully exposed to him.

He cleared his throat audibly, then shook his head in pretend dismay.

"No, you're entirely right," he acquiesced, speeding up, "I don't have another pair of pants with me."

She responded with an overly effusive smile, and a girlish "thank you."

That was one of the innumerable things she adored about him—the fact that ultimately, if her need was sincere, although he may tease her he would never deny her for long. She was not deluded enough to believe, however, that she yielded total or in fact any degree of control over him; physically she was no match for him and he was perfectly capable of exerting his will on her however he chose. He relinquished all power and gave it to her – gave himself utterly and completely to her - of his own volition; a gift that only she was worthy of.

An irrepressible moan escaped her at his fully nude form; seeing his muscular legs, large erect cock and tight shaven balls countless times never got old. She bit her lip suggestively, her left hand beckoning him forward as she wriggled further back so that her entire body reclined on the chaise lounge. He complied, crawling next to her, taking her in his arms and lowering her sitting form into a laying position, side by side.

His right hand snaked between her thighs, to spread his index and middle finger and gently stroke up and down her glazed outer labia. She mirrored his actions, trailing the pad of her index finger languidly from the base of his shaft to the tip, her thumb joining it in circling the very top and down around the circumference in expanding circles to the glans, and then back down to the base with the flat of her nail. She loved to touch him, to let her fingers bask in the altogether too pleasing warmth and the feeling of engorged muscle pulsing with arousal; it was something she had delighted in becoming accustomed to as an eighteen year old.

"You know," she uttered, eyelids heavy, "he had nothing on you. Absolutely nothing."

It was the second time she had said it, the first being during their thrilling little interlude at Wayne's penthouse, when they had been rolling around on the king size bed, prior to penetration. Grinding their hips against each other, she had been desperate for him to enter her, moaning and gasping about that very desperation; "There was nothing about him that could even come close. He didn't tease me like you do, didn't make me crazy with desire like you do.. didn't make me desperate and ravenous. I feel you get hard and I'm yearning, _dying_ to get you inside me. I felt none of that yearning with him; entirely the opposite, in fact. And when he penetrated me..." and at that point he had smoothly slid inside her, causing her to gasp aloud and close her eyes blissfully, "...he didn't fill me so completely like you do. Dear God, it's so good.. the way you make me _stretch_.. Oh God.." Whatever else she had intended to say was truncated as she became lost in him, a slave to the skilled precision of his delectable thrusts.

"I'll take your word for it," he smiled, sly.

"But I think that would be the case for most men. And that's why I'm glad to have you all to myself; I mean, if you'd been with other women, by comparison they'd never have fulfilling sex lives again."

She turned her gaze to where her hand was, regarding his stiff, proud cock as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, before looking back to him and continuing; "See, I really am a philanthropist at heart."

"Of course you are," he nodded, with a cute chuckle, "and I am, too."

"Uh huhhh?"

"Well," his fingers tiptoed inward, parting and sweeping between her even slicker inner labia, "I highly doubt many women are that proficient in using their kegel muscles to wring out a man's orgasm, or would dare to use teeth during fellatio. After that, any woman would be lacking. That's why we.." both fingers grew bolder, this time slipping inside her, and stroking in a circular motion, "are perfectly matched."

She recalled his words when he had first fingered her; "You know, Talia, in sex it's the man's responsibility to take control.. and the woman's, to lose it. So lose yourself, let it _go_." Of course, back then she had never been allowed to lose it entirely, because doing so would have resulted in her screaming the building down; but ever since joining her friend in exile she would throw all caution to the wind, moaning and shrieking like a feverish woman trying to thrash the sickness out of herself. The moment he penetrated her fully, something else would take over - another demon, altogether different than the one to which she owed her name - and whether he made love to her as if she were a princess or fucked her raw as if she were a harlot, the result never varied. And for this – for the she-wolf he unleashed in her - she would leave him beautifully marred with scratches, contusions, nail imprints and bite marks, some of which had even scarred.

At his words and the memory of his first exploration, an inferno of need engulfed her and she gripped his dick tight, rolling her hips around his fingers in an attempt to take him even deeper. But it wasn't enough, and he knew and felt it equally, the look of arrant desperation in his eyes nearly as potent as her own.

In some jujitsu-like move he withdrew his fingers, seized her around the waist, and got into a kneeling position holding her atop his member, her feet flat on the tufted mattress on either side of his hips, his hands now supporting her butt as hers draped over his shoulders and clasped around the back of his neck. It was the first position they had ever assumed, and they took one tiny, weighted pause to relive it again, breath held and hearts dueling. And then, gazes locked, he lowered her down... all the way down... penetrating her right to the hilt. Her eyes fluttered shut upon his entry as she stretched to accommodate him, and she gasped out loud, unconstrained. The gasp was followed by an almost pained cry as he took her by surprise, jolting forward and throwing the both of them down, her beneath him with her back against the mattress and her legs bent at his sides.

Leaning forward on bent, widely splayed knees, he moved his hands from behind her head in order to prop himself up, hovering over her like a lion going in for the kill. Instinctively she was already maneuvering her legs up and back until her ankles rested on his shoulders, her pelvis tilting upwards as she settled into the new position. Her thighs now supporting him, her hands strayed to his hips, holding on and pulling him to maximum, ultimate depth. Feeling him there, consummating her entirely, the head of his cock jamming into her cervix, she couldn't help but moan before he even began moving. And when he did, she straight up threw her head back and yelled.

At a torturous, slow pace, he drove all the way to her core and then stopped, holding completely still, absorbing her heat, her pulse, her energy, and allowing her ample time to thoroughly savor his size within her and the depth of their contact. "_He_ never did that," she had said when they were in the same position at Wayne's Penthouse, "he never knew when to hold back. It was all go, no subtlety. With him it was just sex, but with you... with you..." she had fought to get her words out through the haze of pleasure that was consuming her—pleasure further intensified by the way she knew her admissions excited her friend, "...it's an art form. Do you know... what you do to me? What you do to me... How you make me feel... How you just...Ugh..."

"Ssshhh," he had soothed, for her benefit rather than his, assuring her that explanations and praises were unnecessary. She didn't need to tell him, because he knew. He felt it in the way her vaginal walls pulsed around him and how copiously wet she was; saw it in the unmistakeable blush on her cheeks and her heavily dilated pupils. Just as he had done then, he now drew close to all the way out to allow her to feel virtually every centimeter of his member leaving her, and leaving her maddeningly wanting, toying with her at the point of near exit by holding himself there, his eyes mischievous. He then waited until her anguished plea, testing her to the very limits of her temptation threshold, before sinking into her again.

Pause, retreat, tease, enter. Pause, retreat, tease, enter. Again and again. Strangled groans and affirmations uncoiled themselves from her throat at every re-entry, the position causing him to brush her g-spot as he filled her. Trapped beneath his weight and brute strength, she was completely at his mercy, which was what she enjoyed most of all. Whenever he dominated her it was as if he was claiming her again, reminding her that he was the sole source of her pleasure and that she and all that she felt belonged to him. For this, any semblance of control she may have had would vanish, leaving her with nothing but to surrender and submit to whatever he desired, content to be tormented and torn apart.

As she climbed higher toward orgasm, her friend's technique became increasingly elaborate, alternating slow but firm forward and back strokes with equally slow, defined circles of his hips at the deepest point, sensitizing the depressed perimeter of her cervix – the part they had come to learn as the AFE zone, largely ignored by the general populace - and getting her yet wetter. Her eyes wandered his broad muscular body, from his intoxicating gaze to his impossibly strong arms, to the expanse of his chest and then his robust legs, sinews twisting and flexing at his exertions.

Over the course of the next few minutes the thrusts petered out, giving way to stirs, until he was grinding himself into her, around and around. Gauging her proximity to orgasm by her ever more spasmodic vaginal contractions, and the electric-like jolts of her hips, he paused, keeping her balancing perilously on the edge of absolute ecstasy but not ready to take her over yet. But she was on fire, the need for completion overwhelming her and causing her to writhe and strain against him, her nails threatening to embed themselves into the flesh of his outer thighs, begging him through whimpers and tear filled eyes to consummate her; and then it was his turn to appease her. Lightning fast, with a growl he whipped her hands from his thighs and maneuvered her arms backwards, holding them bent aside her shoulders so as to completely pin her down. Then he was moving once more, mashing their hips together, screwing her tighter, tauter, and then at the pivotal moment changing tack and striking in and out, hard, repeatedly. Waves of sheer ecstasy rolled over her, through her, clawing her away into the fathomless deep; and she was squirting copiously, her head thrown back, her eyes clamped shut and her voice contorted into wordless exaltations. It was impossible to imagine a more exquisite feeling, except for when her protector was climaxing with her.

Normally their lovemaking consisted first of a quick, frenzied release for both of them, and then the gorgeous slow burn of a more leisurely but no less intense session that took its sweet time to develop into the same frantic, rapturous abandonment. Not this time, though. This time she knew he would hold out for her, exercise more control and put into practice more sexual knowledge to deny his climax than he had ever done in his entire life. They had discussed it on several occasions over the last year, she initially apologizing in advance for having to make him wait, to which he had scoffed "making me wait? Excuse me?!" and then gone on to explain how such waiting, such denial, was the most mind-blowing torture imaginable; "That point where you're on the verge of orgasm and you just want to stay there forever; that's how it feels to hold on. Trust me, I'm not missing out at all."

Swallowed whole by the torrent, it took a while before she surfaced, regaining the ability to move. He waited for her to lower her legs back down, before swiftly lunging forward, prizing his hands between her back and the mattress, and scooping her into a seated embrace, his legs crossed and hers hooked lazily around his lower back. Neither thrust nor bucked, but simply held each other, him nuzzling her neck and the side of her face and she with trembling digits clumsily kneading the back of his neck, tracing the vertical scar that marked his spine. The first time they had sat like this was the night they had given each other their virginity, using every opportunity to let her acclimatize to him. She had traced his scar then, too, wishing she could eradicate with pleasure every hour, every minute and second of suffering he had ever endured on her account.

"Talia," he murmured lowly, ending his contact with her neck and focusing his eyes on hers, in that same way he had done during their inaugural union. It was a look reserved for her alone – desire, fascination, admiration, respect, love, loyalty, devotion – and it reminded her that she could fuck hundreds of men and still none of them would be capable of doing what her protector could do for her, to her, with his eyes alone. He could strip her right down to the bone, leaving her open, vulnerable, and entirely naked, with nowhere to run or hide. Seeing it, realizing and acknowledging it all those years ago, had ignited her carnal instincts, breaking through the discomfort and galvanizing her to move again. That look was true power, and it dazzled her.

And dear Lord – or dear whatever/whoever the higher power was, should it even exist – he felt absolutely sublime. Even when completely still, the sheer presence of him inside her, allowing her to luxuriate in his considerable size and forcing her vaginal walls to hug him so close and snug, was bliss in and of itself. His left hand roamed from her back to her arm, up her shoulder, her neck, and to her face, leaving sparks of delicious static in its wake, and the instant his fingers reached her lips she was taking his thumb into her mouth and sucking on it, scraping her teeth against it, a moan rumbling low in the vault of her throat. She was drunk on him, high, and she knew that the instant they resumed their dance she would be gone.

Tentatively he withdrew his thumb from her mouth, shifting beneath her and straightening his legs, then clasping his arms fully around her and using his strong abdominal muscles to lean back until he was flat and she atop him. She planted a gentle, lingering kiss on the cold tubing of his mask, her gaze following his, before placing her hands on his shoulders and sitting up, angling herself so that their pubic bones were aligned. With a protracted sigh she began to ride him, weaving her crotch back and forth, brushing and rubbing against his. He fondled her butt as she moved, fingers straying to the very edge of her pussy's slick opening and carefully exerting pressure to stretch her a fraction wider, making her tingle. She rode him, eyes locked on his, her every breath a sweet moan, to which he responded with her name, like a sleek mantra; "Talia.. Talia.. Talia..". Penetratively alone it would have been enough to pleasure her, without the strokes of her clit against his now moist skin sending delectable little shivers through her. Struggling through impassioned gasps, she managed to tell him how good he felt, as if it were something she hadn't said innumerable times before during coitus. It didn't matter—he loved to hear it, and she loved to say it.

She recalled those times in the Pit when she, small and fragile as a doll, would fall asleep on his chest, innocent and entirely unaware of adult issues, unable to imagine what would come to unfold between them.

"If you'd never helped me escape," she said in a pained voice as the pleasure escalated, causing her to begin arching and dipping her back, "do you think we would have ever.. been like this?"

"I think it was inevitable," he replied softly, fondling her entrance and then unexpectedly circling his hips, sending a bolt of additional pleasure coursing through her like a toboggan, "We only had each other, and that was all we needed. No-one else could ever dream of understanding that sort of purity."

She cried out in response, adoring it when he caught her off guard like that, re-asserting control and reminding her who she belonged to.

"Besides," he continued, his words like sweetly scented smoke to her, "on a purely physical level.. your eyes, your lips... and your voice, your warmth; you're irresistible."

He circled his hips again as she rode, and again, delighting in her ragged intakes of breath and the way her limbs trembled.

"I would have taken you every night, right there in that revolting dirty cell, with everyone's eyes on us."

"Yes.." she mewled, remembering the time, only months ago, that they had fucked in the sewer, in plain view and earshot of his army. To have everyone know how this man made her feel – how he took her, commanded her, made her lose herself - had proved an immense turn on; she only wished they had witnessed it first hand more often. The only thing that had ever come close was the night of his exile, when her father and a group of his men had burst in on the fornicating couple, and back then it had been anything but arousing.

The essence of her juices on his calloused fingertips, he massaged his way leisurely back up her body, rubbing her wetness into her skin, reaching a stop at her waist. She was moving faster now, becoming less controlled and more jerky, the inflamed sweetness in her groin intensifying. It was only a matter of time before she would crest; sensing this, he clutched her harder, applying enough pressure to slow her, and then harder still, forcing her to stop. As always, she found heaven in surrendering to him. Loosening his grip, his hands wandered to the small of her back, holding her in place. He began to thrust, making extra effort to keep his crotch rocking against hers. Slow and deep, like a scintillating internal massage, and then fast and violent, ramming up against her cervix so hard it almost hurt. And so he continued, consistently flitting between the two to keep her rapt, maintaining eye contact with her as he brought her ever higher and tied her in ever more suffocating but divine binds.

"That's right," he grunted through a particularly merciless thrust, "sweet girl.."

And then, suddenly, she was struck through, taken completely by the electrical current. Any voluntary movement became impossible and she was nothing but a vessel for the drug her dearest friend was pumping into her. Tremors assailed her as the delicious sensation exploded, its searing blast radius shooting through her and into her protector, leaving her wailing in what to anyone else would have sounded like hellish torment. Seconds later, breathless and limp, she collapsed on him.

"Jesus holy fuck.." she panted, her overheated heart reverberating in her chest, playing a tennis match with his.

He laughed, fingers twining into her now disheveled hair, the sacrilege not lost on him.

To pace themselves and let her recover from the orgasmic assault, they lay still, save for her to wriggle into a modified position on top of him; legs together, straight and between his, and his legs locking hers in tight- as tight as her sex hugged his. Kissing his shoulder and as much of his neck as was reachable as his hands wandered up and down her back, rough fingers pressing, kneading and massaging, she began to slowly clench and unclench her vaginal muscles around him, mewling at the feel of how his hot member throbbed within her and how her own organ responded to him, matching the strength and intensity of their battling hearts. Clench.. release. Clench.. release. The urge to move was almost overwhelming for both of them, but they denied it, taking heady delight in the torturous restrictive dance.

"You endured more hardship than _he_ ever did," she uttered in a shaky breath, between silky kisses and licks, graceful wanderings of her fingers, and contractions of her vaginal walls, "more than most people in this damn world. Yet, never once... never once were you deterred."

Stoking her protector's ego wasn't necessary, but it felt good nonetheless. She would extol him endlessly if she could - not that it was often possible during sex, coherent speech giving over to moans, wordless cries and ecstatic shrieks - just to see the look in his eyes and feel the increase in his heartbeat.

"He won't beat us..." her eyelids fluttered closed as another gasp escaped her; dear God, she wanted to move now. She had to have him harder, deeper, even more intense; needed to be broken by him again; "He can't. He doesn't... know how. He'll die in this fire, like everyone else... And when the blast hits us..."

"When the world is set alight..." he took over for her, clenching her butt harder to keep the both of them from moving.

"Yes..." she hissed, his action only intensifying her desperation, "one blinding second of the most intense, exquisite pain imaginable..."

"Molten hot flames boiling our blood, tearing us to pieces, stripping us to the bare bones..."

"Yes..." she kissed him faster and hungrier, her vaginal actions mirroring those of her lips, the impaired ability to move her hips driving her stir crazy.

"We'll burn," he breathed, resolution heavy in his voice, "everything will burn, until nothing remains. It's so close, Talia."

"So close now... yes... yes..." she nodded animatedly in response, feverishly, constricting faster around his cock. They were both alight, right then and there, and if he didn't resume thrusting soon she would burn up entirely. She couldn't take it any more.

So, she begged him—one simple, whimpering word: "please.."

Seconds later they were up, still joined, her clinging to his front with her legs folded around his lower back as his hands seated her butt. He carried her to the doorway, stopping by the wall to indulge in a few lingering, sensuous strokes, before continuing into the marble hallway and repeating against the wall there with more aggressive thrusts. The cool of the marble at her back, in stark contrast to the unbridled heat of his body at her front, set her senses further ablaze, making her skin tingle, awash with shivers, whilst his ceaseless vigor had her legs and pussy quivering. It was impossible to tire of how insanely sweet it felt to be carried by him, supported and held aloft by his force and strength, and to be on the receiving end of his love in mind, body and soul. She would die like this if she could, feeling him drive himself home over and over, her life flashing before her eyes, until she shattered. The man who had been with her since her birth would be there at her death, killing her in the most magnificent way possible.

With the onyx sky fading seamlessly into midnight blue and on into ultramarine, the couple's rapture continued into the next room – the place where Daggett had met his death – over chairs, on sofas, against more walls by empty windows breathing frosty air, and back again into the first room to make use of the Ottomans. By the time they had returned to the chaise lounge, the heavens shone with a vibrant palatinate hue. Morning was bleeding in.

Their final union culminated in a tangle of arms and legs, facing one another. Through breathing and panting in synchronicity, through guttural cries and unabashed moans, muscle and sinew and bone, blood and sweat and tears and raw unparalleled ecstasy, they were annihilated for the very last time. Neither was sure whose orgasm came crashing down to claim the other, but only that nothing else existed in the world at that point. The feeling of her sweet friend thrusting and surging furiously into her as he ejaculated, hard, growling her name as she tore at the flesh of his shoulders and back, brought her to the edge of passing out. Fortunately, although the room seemed to be spinning crazily into oblivion, somehow she hung on, determined to feel every last shot, every last shudder and movement and pulse of his long-awaited reward. It was the last time he claimed her, and it was absolutely fucking spectacular.

Utterly spent, they could do nothing for the following few minutes but lay there limply, still joined. Even if either had possessed the energy, they weren't ready to terminate their contact just yet.

After that elapse of pure peace, she had regained enough breath to talk, whilst gazing up into those cherished hazel eyes and feeling the calming rise and fall of his chest; "He was a monumental hypocrite; my father. After what had been done to him, to his own wife, and all that you had sacrificed and suffered on my account, how he could do virtually the same to us made him beyond contemptible. I think I would have killed him myself, if I could. It was inconceivable how you didn't hate him like I did. It infuriated me at times - how you could so easily rise above the unforgivable injustice he'd done you - but with time I learned that you were right... because, like me, with time he would have changed his mind too. He would be proud of you now..." she gave tubing of his mask a tender stroke, as caring as the metal was harsh, "...so proud. Like I am."

Superfluous though words were, she had said them, regardless, because there would be little to no chance for talk later. She followed the touch with a gossamer kiss, her eyes closing automatically as she lost herself in the moment, his hands continuing to stroke her hair and deftly coil the strands around his thick fingers. Her sapphire eyes opened to find him regarding her with that same wonderful gaze, as if she were a deity, something too good to be real. Definite traces of a smile shone from beneath the muzzle.

Of all the things he could have said – the repaying of appraisals, the unnecessary compliments - he didn't reply, except for two words: "Thank you." Those two words, and the look in his eyes, meant so many things, so much more than any praise or lyrical effusion ever could. They alone sufficed.

Fifteen minutes before sunrise proper, on shaky legs the couple emerged from their rapture into the waiting world, as the sky morphed gracefully from electric blue to something more icy and crystalline—that same crystalline vista that had so often greeted them upon waking before dawn amongst the filth and squalor of the Pit. Back then, hope was all they ever had and could ever dream of. Now, the climb had been accomplished, and the dream was theirs. Everything was within their reach, mere hours away, and the culmination of their work would give the world reason to hope again.

Across the chill airwaves, from some distant place floated the sound of a solitary motorcycle engine, tearing down deserted streets. It sounded unusually heavy and fast—a vampiric beast of a machine roaring its last while it still could, before the sun's cruel rays burnt it to cinders. No ordinary vehicle.

The pair exchanged glances, evidently on the same page.

"Let's just hope he wasn't spying on us," Talia mused aloud, suddenly worried Miranda's cover may have been blown.

Bane shook his head confidently; "No. That thing's audible a mile off; even with the noise _you_ make. And it's probably so noisy to ride he wouldn't hear anything else either. Everyone else in the vicinity probably heard us though."

"Poor souls," she replied, looking up at him with a playful smirk.

"Indeed," he smiled back, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, before nodding at the tumbler.

She followed him, then stopped to take one final glance at the ghostly towering structures, beautiful on the outside but rotten within.. and so very finite.

They drove through the attenuated twilight into the blinding rays of a new day, leaving behind the city they had saved.


End file.
